I’ve been living someone else’s life lately. Standing in the kitchen in my lingerie, frying chicken for a boyfriend I don’t have like a girlfriend to none. Washing the dishes ceremoniously with my lipstick still on. Drinking water and making protein shakes so that my body can look better for the people who don’t see me. I’ve slipped slightly into a dream state, puttering around with a broom in my hand, cleaning up after the children I don’t have. Living a life that is unlike the one that I have, yet somehow after living it – it has definitely become mine. The quiet nights in. The full nights of rest. That easy feeling in the morning when my feet touch the floor and it doesn’t even hurt. It’s a strange feeling as I slink around, staying inside for as long as I can, like I am ready to do something that I know will never happen. There are no more hangovers, no more biting regrets. The panic of the day to day has subsided, and in its place: a person I don’t believe exists. I don’t think this is really me. I don’t think it can be me, even though it is me for right now. In this moment, which I know is fleeting, I am someone who couldn’t possibly exist within the the normal bounds of reality. So, do I relish it? Or do I recoil. The thought of feeling so okay in such a quiet way is unsettling, not because there is something upsetting about all of this, but because there is something in my nature that can’t grasp the possibility that everything can be okay. Or, even if everything could be okay, that I would be the one to live it. Maybe I don’t want this to ever end. Or maybe I just hate myself in a new way, and finding out all about that will be just as comfortably horrible as the rest of life as soon as I figure out how to take it, how to hold it, how to let it be a part of me.

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